MY PLYMOUTH ROCK

by Robert Lacambra

(April 2004)

I was with a couple of my friends that one uncomfortably hot and humid afternoon. Every time my eyes would follow the ball to the hoops, I could see that the sky was a beautiful shade of blue and without a cloud. We were playing a game of street basketball; not the playground variety, just a hoop, a backboard and a post stuck upright at the side of the road. I could smell the rubber from the ball on my hands as if a layer of it had melted from the heat. I heard it from one of the older boys; he had just seen the news on the television. It seemed unimportant to me at the time but his name had a way of making me remember him – Ronald Wilson Reagan. He had just won the election in America and he was going to become the new President of the United States. Under the scorching sun, I imagined a larger than life country many thousands of miles away, far enough that it was nighttime there and the air was fresh and cool; a place much more pleasant than where I was at the moment – under a garish tropical sun.

     It may have been brewing for a while. If it did, I didn’t notice. But she decided one day to do it and it was final. My mother, Linda, was going to have a divorce and she was going to take her four sons to America and start her life all over again.The whole trip really started that one morning we went for an interview at the American Embassy in Manila. She decided that we were going to park the car nearby so we can fall in line before the Embassy doors opened. It was about 4AM when we got there and I saw that there were already many people like us who had parked. Some were sleeping in their cars and others were awake, no doubt too excited contemplating the meaning of it all and entertaining in their heads the hopes that came with it. It will take a few months before we would finally leave but the day of the departure came soon enough.

     The flight to the America was really my first big experience with air travel. The Philippine Airlines plane that took us across the Pacific was of a grand magnitude. There was nothing small about the plane. It was massive and appropriate for it’s name the 747 Jumbo Jet. On this trip, there was my Mom, my Grandmother and my three other brothers. The flight felt arduous enough that it made me realize it was a very long trip - some 16 hours. We first landed in Honolulu, Hawaii, our assigned Port of Entry, where we had our Passports and travel documents processed. “Welcome to America”, the Immigration Officer said behind the counter. It seemed as though the moment just stopped for me. I looked around and had a good glimpse of America.

     We had some time to spare before our next flight to the mainland – a layover the Pilot called it on the PA system. We settled in the lounge area. I took one of the lounge seats facing the window looking out to the airport and the various airplanes outside. Nothing was happening until an off-white vehicle without a roof fitted with wide tiny tires and a flat bed behind started coming towards me. It was like a powerful golf cart without a roof. It was at a distance and almost a speck until it got bigger and bigger and bigger. Until, finally, it was close enough to where I was perched - one story up. And there she was. I was looking down at a lady with light brown hair, driving this specialized airport vehicle under the hot sun. A woman, I thought, doing what appeared to be a man’s job. I can’t help but think how beautiful she was. That quaint moment was really the first time I had a sense that I was in America.

     The next part of our flight took us to the San Francisco International Airport. By the time we landed there it was already nighttime. I heard from a friend that it gets chilly in “Frisco” and I just had to check. I touched the cabin window to get a feel for what it might feel outside. The tempered glass felt very cold. I left my seat knowing I was going to experience a climate I have never experienced before. When I stepped out of the airplane the effect of cold weather on my lips came almost instantly. It was my first annoying experience with chapped lips. I came from the tropics where we only had two seasons – summer and rain. Before that evening, I’ve never had chapped lips.

    We had to rush to our next connecting flight. It was the home of my favorite basketball team, the LA Lakers, even way back when. The Spaniards who first settled the area called it “La Ciudad de Los Angeles” - the City of Angels. They must have seen something truly extraordinary and awe inspiring to reserve for eternity such a wondrous name. We only had 45 minutes to get to our assigned departure gate. We had all our hand carry luggage in tow and we were in a big hurry. So much so that on the way down the escalator, my Grandmother lost her footing and fell backwards. MOOOMMMY! My mother screamed in horror. Fortunately, my Grandmother landed on her hind and was able to stand up on her own, unassisted. With a dignity accorded only to people of her age and wisdom, she stood straight up and carried on as if nothing had happened. My Mother, who was standing an arm’s length in front of me, said nothing. She couldn’t. But there was a long expulsion of air – this great sigh of relief.

     The flight into Los Angeles International Airport was very short and uneventful. We were up one moment and before we knew it we were already coming down on the final approach and landing. The usual chore of sorting through and collecting all of our luggage by the carousel immediately followed our arrival. We were all too busy making sure we had all of our belongings. But the excitement we were feeling was intensely electric. We knew that once we stepped through those doors leading outside, a new set of doors will open and our lives will change forever. The first door that opened to me that day was my Uncle Rick’s station wagon. He and my Aunt Sylvia came to pick us up at the airport to take us to the final destination, our new home; a small quiet city called Laguna Niguel.

     The trip down the 405 Freeway made an impression on me. I had never seen roads that wide before. After having spent almost a day sitting upright in a very confined portion of a huge plane, seeing anything other than the clouds and pitch dark was a welcome sight. But because it had gotten dark, I couldn’t make a clear picture of America, even at the prevailing speed of 55MPH. There were lots of lights of every kind – light posts, neon lights, lights from office buildings. There were silhouettes and contours of structures, bridges, buildings and landscape. I could hardly make things out but tomorrow will surely come, I said to myself, and at long last I will see with my own eyes what I traveled many thousands of miles for.

     I woke up early the next morning and peered through my cousin’s bedroom window. It was a medium sized backyard bordered by a very high slope at the far end. It had green grass in the middle and bushes on both sides. It also had a wooden arbor that protruded from the side of the house that at the right time during the day gave a bit of a shade. The sky was a lighter blue with streaks of white clouds. As I looked outside, I was feeling what every immigrant must have felt on the first morning after arriving in America. Some will come and return to their native homes preferring the life that they had been accustomed to. Some will see America for what it is, the land of opportunity and make something of themselves and return home, somewhat of a hero. Some will come and never leave and make a life there for many generations of their offspring. My love for America became clear to me that first morning. It may have been the warmth of the sun that embraced me. It may have been the surprise that slowly appeared before my eyes as the sun came up. It may have been the feeling of unbounded optimism and excitement that has since planted itself in my heart. I would leave her a month later and it would be two years before I would return to her. But I have never left her since.

             That morning, as the golden rays of the sun first touched my skin and illuminated the expansive California Republic, I came to the conclusion that I was in a place not far from where all the immigrants who came before me might have found themselves the moment they knew that they have arrived. It may have been Ellis Island and the first sight of the Statue of Liberty. It may have been Plymouth Rock after a long dangerous journey by sea. It was that unforgettable spot frozen in time that everything started and a new life began for me.